Obvious
by Jelach
Summary: Obvious, Sherlock thinks, how could he have missed it? Out of his comfort zone, Sherlock tries to comfort his friendly pathologist. Enjoy x :)


Obvious

**_I was inspired by this quote from tumblr and felt the urge to write my first sherlolly fic, enjoy..._**

**_ " He'd really like to be a sociopath. But he's so fucking not. The wonderful drama of Sherlock Holmes is that he's aspiring to this extraordinary standard. He is at root an absolutely ordinary man with a very, very big brain. He's repressed his emotions, his passions, his desires, in order to make his brain work better — in itself, a very emotional decision, and it does suggest that he must be very emotional if he thinks emotions get in the way. I just think Sherlock Holmes must be bursting! "_**

She's holding her breath. He sees the tightness of her gentle lips. His piercing blue eyes take in the increased chest capacity, the slight blush forming on her smooth cheekbones, and the bloodshot whites of her hazel eyes with a slight watering in their corners. He's analysing her every movement and she appears oblivious to his intense gaze.

"25 seconds," Sherlock mutters softly. Molly's eyes are abruptly torn away from the congealed blood under the microscope and towards those curiously blue orbs that she can feel scrutinizing her. She lets out her breath and drops the tense square of her shoulders, her eyebrows raised in question.

"What did you say?" She demands.

"I said, 25 seconds," he replies, louder this time. The silence hangs heavily in the frosty air between them as she awaits an explanation.

"You've been holding your breath for 25 seconds and you didn't even notice when I walked in," he states. Molly flinches away from his ever clinical tone and once again absorbs herself in her work. She's looking without seeing anything and she holds her breath again as she can feel the tears threatening to overthrow.

"Something is wrong, Molly Hooper," he ventures, "something is wrong and I can't deduce what it is." He awaits an explanation but no such gift is given. Sherlock always knows the reasons, it's his job. But there is something about the tear softened skin of her cheeks that Sherlock finds a lot harder to comprehend.

Gazing intently at her expression, Sherlock tries to deduce her troubles. He can read a crime scene in his sleep but there is something about the subtlety of Molly's downtrodden, defeated demeanour that he finds difficult to read. He knows that she is sad, dangerously so, but he can't read her for an explanation. Emotion, he supposes, isn't his area of expertise.

He finds that it's his turn to hold his breath as he steels himself to open himself to sentiment, doing all he can to help his friend. Molly has always been there in his hour of need. He realises only now that she needs him how vital she's been to him. It's a humbling thought that his pathologist is so important after all he's experienced.

"Molly," he begins again, but his rich voice falls flat and trails off as he sees the first drop run down her soft skin. He deduces once again that she is not alright. She is not alright at all. He tries once more. "Molly, please tell me what's wrong." He says, in that calm and even tone that is so opposite to the turmoil raging through his insides. He's never known how much emotion he's capable of. His amiable relationship with John has never sparked this much pain, not even when his friend was thrown in a fire. He searches her controlled expression with curiosity, followed swiftly by pain when the composed expression twists into a distorted mask of agony.

It's hurting me to see you like this, he thinks, but can't quite get the words out. He's so new to this connection with his emotions, having never needed it for a case, that he is unable to control his feelings. He tries to regain the rigid control of his sentiments but he is floundering, incapable of feeling anything but the hurt of seeing Molly so upset.

Taking long, fluid strides, Sherlock positions himself next to Molly and pushes her ponytail over her shoulder swiftly so he can look her in the eye. The flustered pathologist he's become accustomed to has disappeared and this Molly, in her distress, regards Sherlock with such helplessness that he does something that surprises them both. Leaving his inhibitions in a file in his mind palace, Sherlock leans in and pulls her into an embrace.

His arms are strong and the coarse fabric of his blue scarf absorbs some of her tears, which return anew as she's reminded of her vulnerability. Remarkably human, he strokes the smooth strands of her straight brown locks and whispers in her ear.

"Don't cry Molly," he begs, "tell me what is the matter." His voice breaks and he strangles out the last of his plea through tightened vocal chords.

"Tell me what I can do to help." She still doesn't reply and Sherlock returns his clinical gaze to look her up and down. The gentle swell of her breasts is heaving, trying futilely to contain her sobs. His eyes catch unfamiliarly upon her defined collarbones and he suppresses the urge to trail butterfly kisses along them. In his fascinating mind, he imagines tracing a path from this soft expanse to the shell of her ears with his lips. His curiosity piques and he swallows the urge to demand an answer to his earlier question. He's there to make her feel better, he reminds himself, her welfare is the priority.

He once again pulls her in close and a comfortable silence settles over them as he holds her. His mind is for once quieted as his periwinkle gaze takes in every little detail of Molly's tear streaked face. She's never been so free of her inhibitions and despite the tears, she's never been more beautiful. Sherlock counts the eyelashes on each eye, storing the information in his mind palace, before recording every subtle nuance of her watery hazel eyes. His gaze settles on her lips, slightly thin but overwhelmingly sad. He wishes he could touch them with his own but he knows Molly. That would only make had feel worse at this moment. He needs to cheer her up first.

Finally, the silence is broken.

"Tom," she croaks, and the sobs return anew. Her whole form shakes with the viciousness of her cries.

Obvious, Sherlock thinks, how could he have missed it? Molly always has her hands on show; as a pathologist she often has to stop her work and quickly grab a new specimen. Out of habit, she always has her hands at the ready, nails trimmed neatly. Today is different. Her left is hidden from his view, clutching the inside of her deep white pockets. He knows it's selfish but, maintaining their embrace all the while, he reaches into her lab coat and pulls out the dainty, delicate hand.

His suspicions are confirmed as he feels the smooth, empty column of her fourth finger and his skin catches on the rough edges of her bitten fingernails. Judging by the ensuing sobs, Tom called of the engagement. He must've said something hurtful towards her to instigate this sort of a reaction. A calm, collected Molly would lead to the deduction that she had called it off.

Now he's really observing, he can see the faint shadow of a bruise by her right ear and the telltale dejectedness in the slump of her petite shoulders. Outraged and disgusted, he deduces that Tom had hit her during the argument that caused him to end the relationship. He softly caresses the darkened skin and she flinches.

"It's ok Molly, I'm here, you're safe," he promises.

She sighs into the smooth fabric of his shirt and he feels a fluttering in her chest as she remains pressed to him. The hand that he's not grasping takes hold of his grey coat roughly and soon he feels her head resting over the beating pulse of his heart. They remain this way until her pulse has quieted to the same speed as his.

When her hold on his calloused hand tightens and she squares her shoulders, without looking he knows her tears have ceased. She's decided to let it go, for now.

Unsure whether she's ready to stand, Sherlock applies upwards pressure on her palms and supports her under the arms. She follows his lead and he helps her towards the locker rooms. He finds it unnerving to see her looking so fragile. Molly is the strongest woman, the strongest person, he knows and its heartbreaking to see her this way.

Together, they make their way to her locker to get rid of the ghastly white coat and to find a warm jumper to protect Molly from the unseasonably cold air outside. Sherlock remains close as she reaches above her head to reach the oversized red sweater and his breath hitches as the soft expanse of her belly is exposed to him. Judging by her skin, he can tell that she's lost a lot of weight recently. It's either due to his 'death' or Tom's damaging impact. He hopes it's the latter for he couldn't stand to be a cause of her discomfort.

He's noticed the changes in Molly since he returned from the turmoil of Moriarty's web but he hasn't observed the underlying unhappiness she hides behind false smiles and her passion for her work. It's almost a role reversal.  
Now he finds himself staring at her smooth form, taking in each muscle contraction as she yanks the red woollen thing over her ponytail with little grace. She's never been more human. Neither has he. He reaches across and brushes the mascara stains under her eyes with his long, musician's fingers. She blinks, startled, and he retracts his hand immediately.

"Too far," he mutters inaudibly. She walks to the sink and tries to collect her scattered thoughts, throwing water over her face to remove the mascara stains as she tries vainly to quiet her emotions. She's torn between wanting Sherlock, as she has done since their awkward friendship began, and the guilt she feels for Tom. It may not have worked out between them, but she loves him still. He's been good for her.

As much as she loves Sherlock, there are a few of his quirks that Tom replaces with his romance and gentleness. Tom has never demanded her help or services at an unsociable hour of the morning, whining down the phone all the while. Come to think of it, Tom has never called her later than 9pm at all. He has never stormed into the morgue, deducing and embarrassing her to the verge of tears. She chuckles darkly, until tonight, he's never made her cry at all. He's certainly never kept severed heads in his fridge, he's never endangered her with his job and he's never shot the wall of his flat out of frustration. She realises with a start that this is the problem. He's been ending their relationship with frustration. He is safe, certainly, but he isn't passionate and he isn't interesting and he isn't the blue eyed consulting detective currently standing a few feet from her.

The second that she turns off the tap, Sherlock is behind her. He's deduced from the spreading blush on her cheekbones that she's decided she wants him after all. As his hands reach hers, he feels her surging pulse and he sees her pupils dilating in their reflection, adding to the evidence of attraction. Her eyelids involuntarily cover her deep brown eyes as he rests his cheek on her shoulder. His piercing blue eyes look upon the beautiful feminine face in the mirror with their incredible intuition and Sherlock finds himself in a strange situation. He is at a loss for words.

The emotions are flowing quickly and he chokes of the rush of sentiment. Admiration? Desire? His subconscious is trying to tell him what the rational part of his brain has been suppressing since the fateful day on St. Bart's roof. He loves her.

This close, his hands tracing feather light patterns on the exposed skin of her shoulder, he smiles to himself.

"Molly Hooper." Her name is a breath, a benediction, an honest truth. "Molly Hooper," he repeats, processing what this means. "Molly Hooper," he tilts his head and places a tender kiss to the soft spot behind her ear.

"Sherlock," she halts him. Blue eyes rise sharply to meet hazel. "Sherlock Holmes," she smiles, dimples appearing on her flushed cheeks as he searches her face for hesitation. No such hesitation is deduced and so, once again storing his inhibitions away, his hand is on those dimpled cheeks and his mouth is on hers. The kiss is passionate and too soon over but Sherlock examines Molly afterwards with a happy smirk on his face.

"I think I love you, Molly Hooper," he breathes.

"I think you're right," Molly says, chuckling at the words she finds herself saying all too often, though never has she thought she would be saying to this. He pulls her close and her guilt finally subsides.


End file.
